


hear it in the silence

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Crooked era, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-22 14:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14310738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: “Ah, sweet Jonathan,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. “So handsome. So bronze. You know I adore you as neighbor and friend. But no offense? Not even if you were the last person left on Earth."





	hear it in the silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakingwosound (sev313)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to my several cheerleaders, who came to my rescue when I thought I was stuck and might have to start all over.
> 
> speakingwosound, I hope you enjoy!

Lovett wakes up with a start, panicked for a reason he can’t pinpoint, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. There’s a knot of nerves stuck just below his ribcage, an annoying ache that he recognizes as anxiety creeping up on him. His hairline is damp with sweat, and he tugs at the front of his thin t-shirt where it’s sticking to his chest. He waves it a little, appreciating the bit of cool air that drifts under his collar. The sun shines through the slit in his curtains, drawing a thin line of yellow light across his bed, and it’s very, very quiet.

 _Too_ quiet, he thinks, his heart racing. He lies perfectly still and stares at the ceiling, his ears straining to pick up any sound -- a bird chirping, a horn honking, the quiet scream of sirens in the distance -- but all he hears is his own blood pumping in his ears. 

He throws an arm out, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table, thumbing over the screen to open it. When he pulls up his texts, they’re blank, and he scrolls through his empty contact list with increasingly shaky hands. His camera roll is empty, too. None of the photos he took of Pundit yesterday are there, or the one of Jon and Tommy making ridiculous faces over drinks earlier in the week. When he pulls up his Twitter feed, the only tweets there are his own; his mentions are nonexistent, and he doesn’t have a single follower. For a sickening minute, he thinks Pundit’s disappeared, too, until she grumbles in her sleep from where she’s curled in a ball at the end of his bed. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, dropping his phone onto the pillow. “Fuck, _fuck_ , what is going _on_.” Pundit lifts her head lazily, giving him a sideways glance before yawning, stretching her paws out in front of her. She barks, just once, and Lovett jumps, startled by the sound. “Ok,” he says under his breath. He rubs both hands over his face, then does it again before throwing the covers back and putting his feet on the floor. “I’m probably having a weird dream,” he tells himself, pulling the curtains back just enough that he can peer outside. Everything looks normal -- his car is still parked in the driveway, the flowers he keeps forgetting to water are still wilting in their potter. The sun is coming up, and the sky is as blue as it always is on early LA mornings.

But there’s no one out walking their dogs, no one jogging by his house with coffee in one hand and their phone in the other. There aren’t any planes in the sky, and his neighbor isn’t out mowing the lawn like he does every other morning.

Lovett plops down heavily on the edge of his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he was the last person left on earth.

*

It was just an offhand remark, is the thing. A joke. A bit. It wasn’t even that funny, Lovett thinks. Tommy had hardly chuckled, and Tommy’s full-body, red-faced giggle was always the best barometer to gauge his jokes by.

It was during an ad read, which is where most of Lovett’s best jokes tend to happen, and Lovett can’t even remember how they got on -- off? -- the subject, but halfway into it, they were riffing about being stranded on a desert island with only the land to sustain them. Jon had said, “We’d have to work together to procreate, for the good of all humankind.” Tommy had snorted and covered his face with one hand, turning red behind it, and Lovett had laughed too, looking fondly between the both of them from his spot at the table. 

“Ah, sweet Jonathan,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. “So handsome. So bronze. You _know_ I adore you as neighbor and friend. But no offense? Not even if you were the last person left on Earth."

If he’d been paying any attention, he’d have seen the way Jon’s mouth had turned downward, or how his eyebrows had drawn together in a frown. If he’d been looking, he’d have seen the flash of hurt in Jon’s eyes, the way he’d sat back in his chair and folded his arms, dropping his gaze to his lap. Even Tommy, if Lovett had bothered to notice, looked a little shocked. 

He played off the awkward silence that followed as the joke fell flat. When the overhead lights flickered ominously, he leaned back in his chair to look up, watching with his mouth half open. “Ohhh-kay then,” he said slowly, clapping his hands together. “Moving on.”

If only he’d known, he would never have said it in the first place.

~

It’s near lunchtime when Lovett finally manages to make himself leave the safety of his bedroom. He’d spent most of the morning tidying his room: organizing his clothes, hanging up the clean shirts he hadn’t put away yet, and actually taking the time to fold his underwear and pair his socks. If, he reasons, this is some sort of zombie apocalypse, the best thing to do is lay low for awhile. He pulls up the Google search bar on his phone, but nothing he types in returns any results, which he figures makes sense, since apparently there’s _no one left on the planet_ to tell him what the hell is going on.

Pundit’s been scratching at the door and whining for the past ten minutes, and if Lovett’s going to be stuck in this room for the foreseeable future, he really doesn’t want her peeing on the floor, so he cracks the door open and pokes his head out, hissing Pundit’s name when she scrambles out under his feet. 

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbles as he makes his way down the hall, looking over his shoulder every few seconds. He peeks around every corner, flings the shower curtain open and jumps back with his arms crossed over his face, just in case, and when he’s satisfied that there aren’t any zombies lurking around waiting to eat his brains, he grabs Pundit’s lead and snaps it onto her collar, opening the front door and letting her drag him out into the heat. 

They hang a left at the end of the drive, their usual route, and Pundit sniffs her way along the sidewalk, pausing at each of her favorite spots to bark at whatever smell she’s encountered. Lovett strains to hear the loud hum of LA traffic, but he’s surrounded by silence, save for Pundit’s intermittent grumbles. They stop at the corner, Pundit panting up at Lovett happily, and continue their walk around the block, where they encounter exactly zero of their usual dog-and-human acquaintances. The pit of dread in Lovett’s stomach is a gaping hole by the time they get back home. 

He fills Pundit’s water dish and grabs a Diet Coke from the fridge before sitting down in front of the TV with the remote in his hand, staring at the black screen. His DVDs, where they once stood in alphabetical order on the shelf, are now just a bunch of blank cases, no trace of the content they held before -- well, before whatever the hell this is happened. When he lays flat on his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, Pundit trots over and rests her head on his hip. He strokes his fingers through her fur, closes his eyes, and listens to the silence. 

Maybe when he opens his eyes again, this will all have been a nightmare.

*

The sunlight has faded when he wakes up, his heart pounding and his palms sweating. He sits up straight and blinks into the dusky light, certain he’d been woken up by a sound. Knocking, maybe, or the doorbell. Maybe, he thinks, he really _was_ dreaming that morning, when he’d woken up and been the only person in the world, or at least in the near vicinity. 

But then he hears it again -- a jangling, followed by the slow creak of his front door opening. Goosebumps race up and down his arms, and Pundit lifts her head, her ears perking. 

“Pundit,” he whispers loudly, but she’s already off towards the entry way, skittering across the hardwood floor, her nails clicking loudly in the quiet. She barks once, twice, and then he hears another bark, familiar but not hers, and the soft mumbling of another voice in the house. He’s on his feet before he can stop himself, because he knows there’s only one person it could be.

“Jon?” he shouts, at the same time that Jon’s shouting “Lovett!” and they run smack into each other in the hall. Jon’s solid form against Lovett’s front feels something like relief, and he laughs, pressing his forehead to Jon’s shoulder. “Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god, Jon, what the _fuck_?”

“I dunno,” Jon says, squeezing Lovett’s bicep before pushing him back gently, putting a little space between them. “I woke up this morning and it was -- “

“So fucking _quiet_ ,” Lovett finishes, and Jon nods, dragging both hands over his face. Lovett flips on the light in the entryway, and Pundit and Leo scramble around their feet, chasing each other into the house. 

“All my contacts are gone,” Jon says, holding his phone up. “Pictures, too. It’s like -- no one else exists.”  
Lovett looks at Jon, a sickening realization coming over him. 

“Stranded,” he says slowly. “Like we’re the last people left on Earth.”

Jon gives him a sad smile, shrugs one shoulder, and pushes past him to make his way to the kitchen. “You hungry?” he calls. Lovett is frozen in place in the hallway, his mind racing. “Lovett?” Jon calls again, poking his head around the corner. “You must have something somewhere in the depths of your pantry that’s suitable for a meal.”

Lovett clears his throat and nods, throwing Jon a weak smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I could eat.”

He flips off the hallway light and follows the scent of Jon’s aftershave into the kitchen.

~

It’s not like they don’t have anything to talk about, Lovett thinks, sitting next to Jon on the couch later, after they’ve eaten and cleaned up and taken the dogs for another quick walk. (Neither Lovett nor Jon had wanted to get too far from home, afraid of whatever unspoken thing was lurking in the early evening light.) It just feels -- strange. Off. Jon’s sitting a few feet away from him, dangling a beer between two fingers. Leo is at his feet, curled up into a ball of golden fur, and Jon’s staring into the distance, his brow furrowed just enough that Lovett notices. 

“Maybe we’re dreaming,” Lovett offers, when the silence becomes too much. Jon hums, questioning, and looks at him, blinking a few times, as though Lovett had pulled him from a deep thought. “Maybe this is all just some weird dream or something, like -- I don’t know, maybe the pho I had for dinner last night fucked with me and I’m dragging you into my crazy food-induced dream world.”

Jon shrugs and takes a sip of his beer, smirking. “You’ve had one too many bad experiences with that particular meal, Lovett. Might be time to give it up.”

“Or _maybe_ ,” Lovett says, shifting on the couch so he can pull his feet up underneath him. “Maybe this is _your_ dream, Favreau. Maybe _you_ are having this nightmare and dragging _me_ into it. Remind me not to talk to you when we wake up.”

Pundit gives a sharp bark, lifting her head from from where she’s laying near Leo, and perks her ears, looking between them. They both jump, startled, and then Lovett starts giggling. It’s a quiet snort at first, and he bites his lip hard when he realizes it’s happening, but then he can’t stop himself, and before he knows it his shoulders are shaking with laughter, his stomach aching with it. 

Through his squinted eyes, he can see Jon watching him with a growing smile on his face, and that just sets Lovett off into another fit of giggles. “You should’ve seen your face,” he squeaks, and Jon’s jaw drops, the corners of his mouth still curved upward. He throws a pillow at Lovett, hitting him square in the face.

“Fuck you!” he says through his own laughter, catching the pillow when Lovett throws it back at him. “You were freaked out too, you practically fell off of the couch!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lovett replies, stretching one leg out to kick at Jon’s thigh. “I didn’t hear a thing. Look at Pundit, she’s sleeping like the sweet angel that she is. Not sure what you were so scared about.”

Jon chuckles softly, and something in the air between them shifts and settles. This is more like it, Lovett thinks. This is what he’d been hoping for since Jon came to his door earlier in the night. Something to remind him that he wasn’t alone in a world that was suddenly, well.

Empty.

Jon sets what’s left of his beer on the side table, the clink of it against the surface loud in the eerie quiet. He stretches and yawns, scratching the back of his neck while giving Lovett a sidelong glance. “I should probably go,” he says, and that’s -- 

“Right, yeah, it’s late,” Lovett says, even though it’s the opposite of what he wants. He doesn’t tell Jon that, though. He doesn’t admit that he’s afraid to be alone in his own house, that he’s afraid of everything they don’t know right now, of everything that’s happening or that’s going to happen.

He definitely doesn’t admit that he’s afraid to go to sleep.

Instead, he watches Jon scoop Leo up and and gets to his feet to walk Jon to the door, leaning in to kiss the top of Leo’s head. There’s exactly one street lamp on their block, four houses down on the corner, and there’s a full moon hanging heavy in the black midnight sky. It’s cool outside, and Lovett shivers a little when a light breeze drifts between them.

It’s so fucking _quiet_.

“Thanks for dinner,” Jon says, and Lovett makes a face at him. 

“You cooked,” he replies. “I just provided the ingredients.”

“Whatever, Lovett,” Jon laughs, ducking his head to nuzzle Leo’s face. “See you -- later, I guess. Tomorrow. Whatever.”

“Sure,” Lovett says. “Tomorrow. When we wake up from this fucked up fever dream.”

Jon nods and turns to go, one foot in front of the other as he makes his way down Lovett’s walk. Lovett watches him, his heart pounding harder with each step Jon takes. The moonlight casts long, dark shadows along the street, and Lovett knows it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him, he knows that Jon’s not _really_ fading away and that’s not _really_ some sort of shadow monster lurking near the curb waiting to open its mouth and swallow Jon whole.

But still.

“Jon!” he shouts, his voice loud in his own ears in the deafening quiet. He’s gripping the door frame so hard his knuckles are white. Jon stops in his tracks and turns around, cocking his head questiongly. “Or you could just -- stay here?”

Lovett hears the woosh of breath Jon lets out, like he’d been holding it in this whole time as he crossed the street. Jon jogs his way back to Lovett, shoves him inside with the hand that’s not holding Leo, and locks the door behind them. “Fucking -- thank fucking _God_ , Lovett, I don’t think I could’ve handled being alone.”

Something about the way he says it makes Lovett feel warm all over. He’s always thought of Jon as this pillar of strength, unwavering even under the greatest pressure. Lovett remembers watching Jon hunched over his desk at the White House, sweat beading at his temples as he alternated between scribbling words down in a composition notebook and typing furiously on his laptop. He can still picture Jon with a pencap between his teeth, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk, his knee bouncing underneath it. “Five minutes, Jon,” someone would say, and Lovett remembers those days, feeling sick at the thought of not making a deadline, his hands shaking as he handed Jon his pages. But Jon never showed any signs of cracking. He’d always lay a heavy, reassuring hand on Lovett’s shoulder, smile his gap-tooth smile, and say, “We got this, Lovett. Nothing to worry about.” 

Now, standing in Lovett’s entryway, no one to be found but the two of them, Lovett lays a hand on Jon’s shoulder, squeezes lightly, and returns the favor.

**

Lovett’s eyes fly open when he hears the shout, waking him from a sound sleep. He’s disoriented for a moment . The room is dark, and it takes him a minute to realize that the person thrashing on the bed next to him in Jon and another minute to remember why Jon’s here in the first place. He rubs a hand over his face and sits up, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder and shaking him a little. Jon’s frowning in his sleep, his lips parted, and his shirt is damp under Lovett’s hand, like he’s been sweating. 

“Jon,” Lovett whispers loudly. “Jon, hey, wake up, you’re -- “

Jon gasps awake, his eyes snapping open and meeting Lovett’s. He grabs for the front of Lovett’s shirt, tangling his hand in the fabric and tugging him bodily closer, until Lovett’s face is pressed into his shoulder and Jon’s arms are wrapped tightly around him. From this angle, Lovett can hear how fast Jon’s heart is beating. His breath is harsh against Lovett’s skin, his chest heaving, and there’s nothing for Lovett to do but lay there and wait for Jon to calm down.

“It’s ok,” Lovett mumbles , managing to pull his arm out from where it’s trapped at his side and pat Jon’s hip awkwardly. “It’s ok, Jon, you were dreaming. It was just a dream.”

“You were gone,” Jon’s saying, so quiet Lovett can barely hear him. Lovett squirms a little, and Jon loosens his grip so Lovett can sit up. He keeps a hand wrapped around Lovett’s bicep, though, like he’s afraid Lovett is going to disappear. “You were gone too, and I was -- there was _no one_ , and it was -- “

“I’m fine,” Lovett says quickly. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere, and we’re going to go back to sleep and when we wake up, this is all going to have been some fucked up hallucination or something.” Jon’s nodding, watching Lovett carefully as he speaks. He should stop, he knows. He should stop before he says something stupid, but, “You’ll probably wake up and wonder what the hell you’re doing in my bed, right? And you’ll sneak out before I can wake up, so I don’t, like, get the wrong idea and think -- well, you know.” 

A look passes over Jon’s face that Lovett can’t quite interpret, and then he looks away, shaking his head and smiling, a little sadly. “I don’t think I’d get the wrong idea, Lovett,” he says, finally letting go of Lovett’s arm. When he looks at Lovett again, Lovett feels like he can’t breathe. “Not if I was the last person on Earth, remember?”

Lovett’s mouth drops open just a little, and he flushes red, a wave of guilt and regret crashing down around him. He can’t look at Jon right now, he can’t even -- it was a stupid thing to say, but it was a _joke_ , it was just a joke to cover up -- 

“Go back to sleep, yeah?” Jon says gently, and Lovett nods, a little frazzled, and rolls over on his side. After a long moment, the covers rustle a bit, Jon settling in beside him. Jon takes a deep breath, blows it out, and says, “Goodnight, Lovett.”

Lovett closes his eyes and wills himself to dream things back to normal.

~

Lovett wakes up with a start, panicked for a reason he can’t pinpoint. There’s a knot of nerves stuck just below his ribcage, aching, and he’s sweating, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The sun is shining through the slit in his curtains, drawing a thin line of yellow light across his bed, and it’s very, very quiet.

Again.

He rolls onto his back and sighs, staring at the lone crack in his ceiling. He tracks its path from above his bed to the corner of his room, his eyes catching on the way his bedroom door is slightly open. It occurs to him that Pundit isn’t at her normal spot at his feet, and also that the other side of the bed is rumpled, an indent on the pillow next to him, so that means -- 

“Hey,” Jon says, poking his head into the room. “You’re awake. I took the dogs out, they were getting restless. There’s coffee if you want.” Then he disappears, and Lovett blinks, pushing himself up on his elbows.

He calls out, “Are we still --”

“Just the two of us,” Jon calls back, his voice fading on the last words. Lovett falls back onto his pillow dramatically and throws an arm over his face, groaning. He jumps when he hears Jon’s voice again.

“C’mon, get up. It’s a beautiful day, we’re going hiking.”

He hears the click of Pundit’s nails on the floor, then Jon’s laugh as she pushes between his legs and bounds up on to the bed, covering Lovett’s face in good morning kisses. “Okay, okay,” he grumbles, trying to cover his face. “I’m up. But hiking is not an activity that’s on our previously agreed-upon list of things to do, Favreau, so pick something else.”

Jon cocks an amused eyebrow, watching as Lovett disentangles his legs from the sheets and puts his feet on the floor. “What list, and when did we agree to it? I don’t remember signing anything.”

Lovett scoffs and waves a hand in the air, flattening himself as best he can against the other side of the door frame as he slinks past Jon and out into the hallway. “It was a _verbal_ agreement, and it was like, a long time ago. Probably when you first moved here and tried to drag me out into nature. Should’ve learned your lesson that time.”

Lovett remembers it clearly, actually. There _is_ an agreement, and hiking is _not_ part of it, and he can’t believe Jon doesn’t remember when he’d first come to LA, excited and bouncing with seemingly endless energy, and showed up on Lovett’s doorstep one morning with a backpack slung over his shoulder and two of those fancy water thermoses filled with ice cold water. He shoved one at Lovett, beaming, and Lovett had glared at him, unimpressed and still in his pajamas, his hair sticking up on one side. 

“C’mon, Lovett, it’s a beautiful day for a hike,” he said, and Lovett rubbed his eyes blearily.

“Do you even know me, Jon? Am I even still your best friend? _Hiking_? Since when do I like to go _hiking_?”

Jon grinned, and Lovett tried to hold fast to his ideals, he really did, but twenty minutes later he had his own backpack on his back, squinting into the sun. He tried to keep up with Jon as he climbed some stupid hill that had no business being so rocky. By the time they reached the top, Jon had barely broken a sweat. He stood there smiling, looking out at the city that lay at their feet, his skin already perfectly bronzed from his short time in LA. 

The bridge of Lovett’s nose was sunburned. There were wet circles of sweat under his arms, and his hair was probably matted to his head where he had to keep pushing it back out of his face. He was breathing heavily, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, and Jon had looked at him, always so earnest and sincere, and said, “You look good like this, Lovett. Thanks for coming with me.”

“Never again,” Lovett said. “From now on, I approve any and all activities.” Jon laughed at him, threw an arm around his shoulder, and let Lovett lean on him the whole way back down. 

Lovett doesn’t think he could handle that now. Being in the same _room_ with Jon isn’t always easy anymore -- Lovett had learned to do a lot of reining in lately. Every day that goes by it gets harder and harder for him to keep his feelings hidden away, to stop himself from casting longing gazes in Jon’s direction. Now, standing here in the kitchen, just the two of them drinking coffee shoulder to shoulder at the counter, Lovett is finding it hard to keep _anything_ in.

“Think this is my fault?” he blurts, and Jon tilts his head, looking at him curiously. “This whole -- whatever the fuck this is.”

“Why would it be your fault?” Jon asks slowly, sipping his coffee with his eyes fixed on Lovett. He’s suddenly much too close. “Did you gain some sort of magical powers while I wasn’t looking?” The press of his shoulder against Lovett’s is too distracting, and he has to put some space between them before he keeps talking. He takes a step forward, pulls out a stool at the breakfast bar and sits on it, leaning his chin on his hand.

Lovett’s about to say more when Jon pushes off from the counter and sets his empty mug in the sink. “Get dressed,” he says, and Lovett doesn’t miss the fact that Jon’s avoiding his eyes. “I need to get out of the house.”

“I thought I already rejected the hike you suggested,” Lovett says, and Jon finally looks at him again.

“Hike is cancelled. We’re going for a drive.”

~

“This is fucking _creepy_ ,” Lovett says, his eyes wide as he leans forward in his seat. He adjusts his seat belt so it isn’t digging into his neck and sits back heavily, huffing out a breath. He glances at Jon in the driver’s seat, watching him carefully. His hands are tight on the wheel at 10-and-2, and there’s an obvious line of tension across the broad width of this shoulders. They’re driving slowly, barely 10 miles per hour, to Crooked HQ, and the sidewalks are desolate. It’s incredibly strange to see the street, usually bustling with people at this time of day, lined with unused parking meters and empty patio tables.

When Jon parks the car in front of their building, neither of them makes a move to get out. “Should we go in?” Jon asks, and Lovett stares up at the building, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Is it weird that I’m afraid of what we’re going to find?” Lovett asks, deliberately not giving a description of the morbid, terrifying things that are going through his head.

“There’s no one else here, Lovett,” Jon says gently, like he can read Lovett’s mind, and they both get out, collecting the dogs from the backseat before heading into the office. 

Jon was right, of course. There’s no one else here, but if Lovett doesn’t look too closely, he can almost imagine this is like any other day at Crooked Media. He watches Pundit scurry towards his desk, Leo at her feet, and looks at Jon sitting in his own chair behind his own desk, running his fingertips over the stack of books next to his keyboard. But the frames hanging on the walls are empty, and the books sitting on Jon’s desk are just pages and pages of blank paper. Lovett looks at the photo he has tacked on the wall near his desk, the one of Jon, Tommy and him from back in their White House days. There’s a gaping space between Jon and Lovett where Tommy used to be, and for some reason, that’s what sets Lovett off.

He feels the tears stinging his eyes before he can stop them.

“Lovett?” Jon asks. Lovett’s back is turned to him, and he hears the quiet squeak of Jon’s chair pushing back. Jon’s at his side a second later, a hand on Lovett’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Lovett sniffles, resisting the urge to lean into Jon’s side, to turn his face into Jon’s shoulder and stay there. Jon has always been a source of comfort for him, for as long as Lovett can remember. The night before he left DC for the last time, when all his things were crammed into the back seat of his car and he had a new beginning waiting for him in LA, he showed up on Jon’s doorstep in a panic, convinced he was making the wrong decision. “What if everyone hates me?” he asked, sitting on Jon’s couch with his head in his hands. “What if I only _think_ I’m funny, what if my writing is actually _terrible_ , what if --” He cleared his throat and looked at Jon, who was sitting on the coffee table in front of Lovett, his brow furrowed. “What if I fail?” he whispered, and Jon let out a loud breath and wrapped his fingers around Lovett’s wrists. 

“Lovett,” he said, pulling Lovett’s away from his hands. He looked Lovett right in the eye, smiled, and said, “That’s impossible.” 

Coming from anyone else, Lovett would have brushed it off. He would have scoffed, or rolled his eyes, or snapped back with some snarky retort. But hearing it from Jon, in that soft, sincere voice he always seemed to use when he was talking to Lovett, Lovett believed it. 

Now, here, in this fucked up alternate universe where they’re suddenly the only two people in existence, Jon puts both hands on Lovett’s shoulders and turns him so they’re facing one another. “Hey,” he says, and Lovett blinks around the tears clinging to his eyelashes. “It’s gonna be ok.”

And Lovett believes him.

~  
Jon makes a quick trip to his own house while it’s still daylight. He comes back with his toothbrush and a change of clothes, looking at Lovett sheepishly. “I thought maybe --”

“Yeah, no, of course,” Lovett says quickly, because there’s no way in any universe, this one or the usual one or one where he and Jon are aliens living on another planet, that he’d turn Jon away. 

“Thanks,” Jon says, offering Lovett a small smile, and he disappears into the house. When he comes back, he’s empty-handed, and Lovett feels some sort of way about Jon’s toothbrush sitting next to his in the bathroom and Jon’s clothes folded neatly at the edge of hid bed. He tucks the feeling away, safe with the rest of them, and puts a hand on his grumbling stomach.

“I’m starving,” he announces, and Jon smirks at him from where he’s sprawled on Lovett’s couch.

“I bet,” Jon said. “Didn’t have your usual lunch of four tacos with a side of chips and guac today.” Lovett huffs, affronted, and Jon grins, sticking his tongue out between his teeth.

“I’ll have you know, _Jon_ , that the last time I had four tacos for lunch was at _least_ two weeks ago.” He pauses, and Jon’s eyes dance. “Ok, maybe a week and a half, but the _point_ is, I’m starving and I need to eat _now_ , before I waste away and you’re left in this crazy two-person world all alone.”

“You’re right, Lovett,” Jon says, getting to his feet. “Can’t have that happen.” As he brushes past Lovett on his way to the kitchen, he leans in and says, “The world would be an awfully lonely place without you in it,” and Lovett has to steel himself against the rush of emotion he gets at Jon’s words. He feels the back of his neck go hot, and he hopes Jon isn’t looking at him, because this is one of those moments where if Jon _was_ looking, he’d see Lovett’s heart beating right there on his sleeve, Jon’s name plastered all over it.

Lovett pushes back the coffee table, and they sit on the floor, their backs against the edge of the couch and their feet stretched in front of them, as they eat frozen pizza and drink the last four Miller Lites from Lovett’s fridge. Jon nudges his shoulder into Lovett’s and says, “Today was fun.”

Lovett snorts, swallowing the last bit of beer from his bottle. “Fun, you say? What was your favorite part, Jon? The complete lack of any other human being in all of LA? Hitting the office and looking at all the blank photos in useless frames? Or maybe it was the drive past your favorite restaurant. No wait for a table today, too bad there wasn’t anyone there to seat us.” It comes out angrier than he means it to, and Jon, of course, takes notice.

“Wow,” he says, leaning away from Lovett. “Being alone for two days is really messing with the whole fun-and-friendly vibe you had going.” He moves to stand up, and Lovett makes an apologetic sound.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Jon hesitates before sitting back down. “I’m sorry, this is just so fucked up and scary, and I just -- you didn’t answer me, before. When I asked, uh. If you thought this was my fault.” Jon stares at him, unrelenting, until Lovett keeps talking. “Because I think it might be? Maybe. You know. Because of that thing I said.” 

“That thing,” Jon says, still watching him. “I’m not sure I know what you’re -- “

“That _thing!_ ” Lovett shouts, feeling bad when Jon winces a little. “That stupid thing I said, that _joke_ , it was just a fucking _joke_ and now we’re --” He trails off, sighing heavily. He drops his head back onto the couch cushion and looks at the ceiling, his shoulders sagging.

“The last two people left on Earth,” Jon finishes, quiet. Lovett risks a glance in Jon’s direction, only to find that Jon’s staring at his beer bottle, holding it tightly between his hands. The soft hum of the central air is the only sound in the room for what seems like hours, until finally, Jon says, “Why’d you say it?”

He’s still not looking at Lovett.

“Jon,” Lovett says, trying to keep his voice steady. “It was a joke.” 

Jon huffs a sad laugh. “Wasn’t funny, Lovett.” He pushes up on to his feet and moves into the kitchen, setting his empty bottle on the counter. Lovett hears the soft patter of his feet, then the click of the door opening -- and then closing -- behind him. 

Lovett drops his chin to his chest, closes his eyes, and feels very, very alone.

**

It’s three hours later when Jon shows up again. Lovett could have gone to bed, but he knew he’d never fall asleep, so he’d been entertaining himself by rearranging his living room, doing the pile of laundry he hadn’t touched for at least a week, and changing the sheets on his bed. He’s lounging on the couch -- now pushed up against a wall instead of in the middle of the room -- when he hears Jon come in. 

He sits up a little, ready to apologize for saying such a stupid thing, but Jon’s talking before Lovett can get a word in. 

“Would it be so bad?” he says, folding his arms over his chest. He’s clenching his jaw -- Lovett can tell by the way it’s twitching on one side -- and his eyes look a little red. “Is it me? Is it something I’ve done to make the thought of -- of -- _being_ with me seem so horrible that you wouldn’t want it even if I were the last fucking person on _Earth_? Because that’s pretty shitty, Lovett, even for you.”

Lovett gapes at him, his face flaming hot and his heart racing. Where is this even coming from, he wonders? Is Jon’s ego so big that he can’t handle the idea that maybe his gay best friend doesn’t want him like that? That’s not like Jon, not the Jon he knows. Lovett’s confused, and it must show on his face, because Jon makes a frustrated noise and throws his hands up in the air. 

“What do you want from me, Jon?” Lovett asks, choosing his words carefully. He’s done a great job of protecting his feelings for all these years, and he’s not ready to let his guard down just yet. “You want me to apologize? I’m sorry, ok? I’m fucking sorry, it was a stupid thing to say, I’m sorry if it made every other person in the world disappear somehow. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”

Jon laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “Jesus fucking Christ, Lovett, you think -- don’t you get it?”

Lovett really, really doesn’t.

Jon drags his hands over his face and then puts them on his hips, staring at the floor. His shoulders are slumped a little. He looks defeated. “Ask me who I’d choose if I had to choose just one person to be the last person on Earth with me.”

“Jon --”

“ _Ask_ me, Lovett.”

Somehow, Lovett thinks he already knows the answer. He doesn’t know if it makes him feel better, or worse. “Please just --”

“It’s going to be you every single goddamn time, Lovett. Every time. It’s _always_ you.” Lovett’s chest goes tight, and he can feel a lump starting to form in his throat. Jon plows on, and there’s nothing Lovett can do but sit and listen. “Last night, when it started getting dark and I still thought I was the only person left on the fucking planet, I sat by the window in the dark and looked at your house. And I wondered what my life would be like without you in it, or what I’d done to deserve being left all alone, without --” He clears his throat and rubs his knuckles over his left eye. “And then I realized that your light was on. Your fucking light was on, and I’ve never --” 

He takes a step toward Lovett, then another, and then another, until they’re barely an arm’s length apart. Lovett is frozen in place, his gaze locked on Jon, who’s looking right back. 

“I’ve never, _ever_ felt relief like that, Lovett. _Never_.”

Lovett’s eyes burn; his hands are shaking a little, and he has so much to say, so much he’s been keeping locked up in a tiny, Jon-shaped box in his heart. He’s carried it with him for years, held it tight even as it outgrew the space he kept for it. It spilled out sometimes, showing up in photographs of him gazing at Jon with an unmistakable look in his eye; in the praise he showered on Jon during podcasts, or interviews, or to their friends and family; in the double-over-with-laughter conversations they shared, sitting together on Jon’s couch after particularly shitty news days.

Now, with Jon standing in front of him, his words laid out at Lovett’s feet like an offering, Lovett thinks that if he’d just taken the time to look, to open his eyes and really _look_ , he might have seen some of his own feelings reflected back in Jon’s eyes. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Lovett says, a near-whisper, looking at floor near Jon’s feet. 

“Lovett,” Jon says gently, and when he crouches down, Lovett can’t avoid his eyes anymore. “Why did you say it?”

Lovett sniffles, rubbing the back of his hand across his face. “So you wouldn’t know,” Lovett says, and Jon frowns a little, reaching his hand out to hover over Lovett’s knee, hesitating a minute before letting it rest there. Lovett laughs wetly, wiping his eyes. “I kept it away from you for so long, it just got to be habit, I guess.”

“Kept what away from me, Lovett? Can’t you just -- just _tell_ me, Jon, why can’t you --”

“Me too,” Lovett interrupts, and Jon blinks at him, squeezing Lovett’s knee. “Always. For so fucking long I can’t even remember a time when it _wasn’t_ you.”

Lovett holds his breath. He’s not sure what to expect now that all his cards are on the table, but nothing he could imagine could compare to the way Jon’s looking at him right now. His entire face is lit up, his smile so wide his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and then he’s dropping to his knees between Lovett’s legs, cupping Lovett’s face in both hands, and kissing him. 

It’s nothing like any first kiss Lovett’s ever had -- nothing like _any_ kiss Lovett’s ever had, because it’s Jon, it’s _Jon_ kissing him, it’s Jon’s hands on his face and Jon’s teeth tugging at his lower lip and nothing has _ever_ felt like this. They’re both crying a little -- Lovett can taste the salt from Jon’s tears on his lips -- and Lovett can’t hold back a joyous burst of laughter. Jon smiles against his mouth, and the little box inside Lovett’s heart bursts at the seams. 

Jon gets to his feet, making a face when his knees crack loudly. “Getting old, Favreau,” Lovett teases, and Jon winks at him, grabbing Lovett’s hands and pulling him to his feet. 

“Better get me in bed while you can then,” Jon says, and that’s -- Lovett hoped, but he wasn’t sure that’s where this was going. “Unless you don’t, uh. Unless that’s not what this is?”

“Self-doubt is not a good look for you,” Lovett says, and goes up on his toes to press a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. It leads to another kiss, and another, and when they finally break apart, Lovett’s hard in his sweats and Jon’s lips are red and wet, kiss-bitten. Lovett gives a wordless nod toward the bedroom, and as he makes his way there, he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Jon is right behind him. 

It turns out he’s been there all along.

 

~

When Lovett wakes up the next morning, it’s to the sound of his phone vibrating on his night stand. He fumbles for it, momentarily forgetting that less than five hours ago, he and Jon were the only people left on the planet. He sits up quickly, looking around at his room. Nothing seems to have changed -- his basket of unfolded laundry is still sitting by his door, his clothes from last night are laying on the floor next to his bed. The only difference is that five hours ago, Jon was in his bed, braced over Lovett and fucking into him slowly, touching Lovett’s face and kissing his lips and whispering sweetness in his ear. Now, he’s alone, and he thinks, for a heartbreaking second, that it really _was_ all a dream, that the realizations and confessions and years of pent-up feelings being spilled out never happened. 

Then he hears Pundit bark, followed by the soft murmur of someone shushing her. He hears footsteps coming towards the door, and his heart leaps to his throat. And then there’s Jon, leaning against the door frame like he belongs there, shirtless and smiling. There’s a bruise blooming just below his collarbone -- Lovett remembers putting it there -- and he’s looking at Lovett like he hung the sun, the moon, and the stars all in one fell swoop. “Hey,” he says, so fond that Lovett turns a little pink. “You’re up.”

Lovett holds up his phone. “The world is back,” he says, and Jon nods, pushing off the doorframe and crawling up the bed towards Lovett. He brushes a kiss to Lovett’s temple and takes the phone out of his hand, setting it back on the nightstand. “What are you doing?” Lovett asks, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Keeping you to myself for a little while longer,” Jon says, and Lovett closes his eyes, kisses Jon, and lets him.


End file.
